


The Shocker, a Story about Jealousy and Bad Puns

by town_without_heart



Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: A handful of bad puns, A hint of PTSD, F/M, Leonard Snart Has Feelings, M/M, a smidge of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-14 17:58:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7184279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/town_without_heart/pseuds/town_without_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three times Leonard Snart got jealous, and one time he did something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shocker, a Story about Jealousy and Bad Puns

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drpepper23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drpepper23/gifts).



> This is a gift for drpepper23, my most faithful reblogger, who requested "ColdFlash+jealousy." To be fair, I legit have no idea how to write a jealousy fic, so this is my best attempt. Also, a quick thank you to the fabulous CardinalStar, who provided pun patrol and a steady stream of feedback during the creation of this story.
> 
> For fic updates and cupcakes, my tumblr is: townwithoutheart.

***

The first time it happens, Len isn’t even _aware_ of it.

(He isn’t. Thief’s honor. Not even a bit.)

He’s in the middle of a heist, adrenaline pounding through his veins, the only drug that has ever brought him satisfaction. The bank’s vault is broken wide open, pieces of thick metal frozen and twisted. It’s a bold move, using his coldgun in combination with what can only be described as a “miniaturized wrecking-ball.” The wrecking-ball is one of Ramon’s inventions – kid comes up with the wackiest stuff – and Lisa’s expression has rivaled the cat who got the cream ever since she managed to steal it from Ramon’s apartment, along with whatever else she took.

Personally, Len’s money is on a kiss, but then, he’s always been a closet romantic. Knowing his sister, Ramon is probably still handcuffed to the bed, and really, the less he thinks about that, the better.

Nearby, Mick is neatly stacking the vault money into two, black duffel bags. Lisa has her own bag, and is picking through a series of deposit boxes. Len can tell every time she finds a piece of jewelry to her liking by counting the ecstatic little “ooh’s” and “aah’s.” Most women go nuts over babies. Lisa? Lisa coos at that which is gold and glistens.

(Len’s mind turns briefly to Ramon’s skin, dusty bronze or muted gold, depending on the lighting, and he thinks really, the kid never stood a chance.)

Len is on the lookout, not for the cops – they have seventy-six seconds before the CCPD responds to the silent alarms – but rather, for the Flash. Just last year, it wouldn’t have made any sense to hit the banks because of the narrow window of opportunity between the initial security breach and the first cop on the scene. However, thanks to Ramon’s inventions, coupled with the introduction of metahumans into the criminal community – well, the rules of the game have changed.

While Mick and Lisa work, and Len keeps an eye out for any surprise visitors, a portion of his mind wanders, pondering these new developments.

Stationary targets? Len isn’t a fan. Stationary targets with excessive security systems? Even less so. But when he doesn’t have to waste precious minutes cracking codes to the safe – when he can freeze the doors with his gun in a heartbeat, then break them down in a scant handful of seconds–?

And everyday, more metahumans are being discovered. Everyday, ordinary-looking men and women come forward, admit that they’re not crazy, and yes, he can walk through walls, and yes, she can breathe fire.

(Mick might be a little bit in lust with that one, actually. Dangerous times.)

Those men and women, with abilities that put his coldgun to shame, herald a brand new era of crazy. It has Len’s mind _reeling_ most days. Take Peek-a-boo for example, as the woman calls herself. She is exactly what Len desperately wants for his crew. Unfortunately, after last years spectacular blowout – when Len rescued the metahumans that the Flash locked away – the woman managed to slip almost completely off the grid. Lisa hangs out with her occasionally, but that second-hand contact is as close as Len has gotten to her since. 

Peek-a-boo seems intelligent enough, though she does have a literal case of tunnel vision. If Lisa is to be believed, the woman can teleport anywhere she can see, which is why she carries an old-fashioned spyglass. The spyglass doubles as a weapon too, and Len has some highly entertaining security footage of her taking a couple of pot shots at the Flash.

What Len wants to know, though – really, really wants to know – is if Peek-a-boo can teleport by using live-feed security cameras.

Because that, right there? That would be _genius_. In the two-minute window before police responders show up on the scene, Len could escort Peek-a-boo into the primary security office. Using the cameras there, she could have direct access into the vault. While she worked her magic, the rest of the crew could leave, making a clean getaway before anything was even _stolen_. Simultaneously, the woman in question could loaded up her bags with money, bonds, and whatever else she could get her greedy little fingers on. Then, a simple video phone call could provide her with a way out, giving her access to teleport to a safehouse, or even the back of a van in transit.

At some point, if Lisa and – what’s her real name, Shawna-something? – get a bit closer, maybe Len will have his little sister offer a trial run on their team. Then again, maybe not. His information is somewhat limited, but from what he’s seen, the woman doesn’t play well with others. Being willing to follow orders in a heist – in _his_ heists – is vital.

Len sighs, inaudible against the racket his team is currently creating as they finish packing their loot into the duffel bags. Superpowers are a grossly unfair advantage. Still, Len’s used to being the underdog. It’s never stopped him before, and it’s only a matter of time until he gets his hands on a metahuman or two who’s willing to work on a team.

“We’re good,” Mick says, zipping up his duffel bags and tossing one to Len. Across the room, Lisa echoes the statement. Each of them has a gun in one hand, ready for any surprises, and the other hefts a single, heavy duffel bag. Quickly, they make their way through the narrow corridor that leads back to the lobby. 

It’s late, just after midnight, and the bank’s only security guard has been bound and gagged, trussed up like a Christmas turkey and stashed out of sight behind the teller’s counter. They still have a solid thirty seconds before the cops show up, and though Len can hear sirens in the distance, adrenaline and excitement sing beneath his skin. His heart pounds in his chest, a heavy tempo, and they are almost home free.

Once outside the bank, the trio makes their way to the getaway van, parked across the street. They are in the process of loading their goods into the back when suddenly, the Flash is there. Vigilante for justice, hands on his hips, and Len spares the theatrical pose a moment of appreciation, because Barry – Barry looks good.

(It is an unfortunate fact that has cost him precious seconds on previous jobs, because Barry always looks good.)

Still, Len was prepared for the kid to show up, even if he’s a little bit late to the party. He grins, “What took you so long, Scarlet? You get cold feet?”

Behind him, Mick smothers a groan, and Len can practically hear Lisa rolling her eyes as she hisses under her breath, “Fucking cold puns.”

The Flash has a cocky grin on his face, and his eyes are almost electric; they never leave Len’s face. He tosses back, “Does it count as being late when dealing with guys like you takes no time at all?”

A second groan, this time from Lisa, and Mick grunts, “Fucking speed puns.”

Len smirks. “ _Guys_ like me?” He gives the words just a moment to sink in.

The Flash’s eyes flicker from Len’s face to focus on something directly behind him. Since Len is looking forward, keeping his gun pointed at the man in red, he doesn’t actually know what the kid is seeing, but based on the kid’s expression – moderately horrified, slightly perplexed – Len hazards, “She’s giving you the bird, isn’t she?”

“Ah–” the skin of Barry’s face, what’s visible through the cowl, is flushed red. “Yup.”

“Want to amend that before she shoots you?” Len offers, feeling generous. Behind him, he can hear Mick clambering into the driver’s seat, and there is the distinct hum of Lisa’s goldgun being charged. The sirens are closer, now.

Barry stammers, “Look – I didn’t mean that women can’t be criminals, too. Ir – I mean, this girl I know would literally stab me dead if she thought I was advocating female stereotypes, but I was talking to your brother and–”

Behind Len, Lisa giggles, “You are _seriously_ too much, Scarlet. So _earnest_.”

The sirens are almost on top of them, and Len’s just about to take a single leap back into the van. If he pulls the trigger on his coldgun at the same time as he moves, Lisa will probably follow suit. Between the two of them firing, that should distract the Flash enough that Mick can start the van, and then the chase–

Abruptly, Barry touches his gloved fingers to his ear. “Seriously, man? Right now?”

Len blinks. “What–?”

“Geeze,” Barry grumbles. He looks at Len, points his finger, shakes it once, sternly. “Stealing is wrong, but it looks like I’ve got bigger problems. If the cops don’t catch you tonight, I’ll _definitely_ get you next time.”

“In your dreams, Scarlet–” Len starts to reply, but the kid is already gone before he can finish the statement. He stands there for a moment, feeling dumb.

Behind him, Lisa scoffs, “What the fuck, Lenny? C’mon, big bro, let’s go, let’s go!”

Len turns, grabbing his sister’s empty hand, and she hauls him into the back of the van briskly; the force she uses nearly dislocates his shoulder. Len grabs the back doors of the van, swinging them shut, and Lisa pounds on the metal ceiling with her fist, “Go, go, go!” Len doesn’t even feel the engine turn on, but Mick has a lead foot and the van peals away from the curb, tires screeching.

And now, their escape is down to basic recon, collected over the last week. Which roads are less likely to have cops coming towards them? Close range, which roads have less traffic and fewer stoplights? Further away, when they have lost their police tail, which roads have more traffic for blending in? Which back roads are best to get to the safehouse?

Mick already knows what he’s doing, so Len just settles in next to his sister and slips his seatbelt on. There is a strange feeling, right there, in his chest. It’s like – a weight? Unexpected. And he feels a little lost, a little confused.

(A little hurt, even, but he won’t ever admit that, not on pain of death.)

No, that first time, Len doesn’t quite recognize the feeling for what it is. He isn’t an idiot, thank you very much, and he’s usually self-aware enough to identify his own feelings. It’s just, contextually, that particular emotion has no business rearing its ugly head. 

Beside him, Lisa is wrist deep in a bag of stolen jewelry, the delicate chains spilling over her fingers like golden spaghetti as she lifts them up in her cupped hands. Her eyes are on the sparkle and the shine, entranced, but her words are thoughtful. “It worked out for us, but I gotta’ admit... that was really weird, Lenny.”

Len frowns, perplexed. “Really weird,” he agrees, and tries not to think about the way his chest tightens.

“Got something,” Mick says from the driver’s seat. He turns up the radio, and Len finds himself listening to a news report about a new metahuman menace who the reporters are calling “The Shocker.” Something about lightning bolts being directed from fingertips, and an attack on the precinct, and the Flash is there, in the middle of it all.

“Works for us, I guess,” Lisa remarks, and Mick grunts an affirmation.

Len has no reason to feel jealous right now.

No reason at all.

***

The second time it happens – well, the second time is worse. Because Len has been planning this heist for a month, ever since his last bank robbery was interrupted – and subsequently abandoned – by the Flash.

Lisa has utilized the majority of this month to slither her way back into Cisco Ramon’s good graces, employing her sweetest feminine wiles with near-lethal precision. Len is torn between being impressed with his sister for pulling it off, or calling Ramon pathetic for buying it. Then again, Ramon is a big boy who is more aware than most of what Lisa’s criminal background entails, and it’s actually possible that Len might approve of their on-again off-again relationship.

Because Ramon, despite technically being the enemy, isn’t a bad guy. He isn’t some scumbag who can’t hold a job, who expects Lisa to support his lifestyle or his bad habits. He isn’t a heavy drinker – always a plus – and he isn’t intentionally violent or remotely abusive. On the handful of dates Len has spied upon, the kid has taken his little sister out to nice restaurants, treated her with respect _without_ coming off as chauvinistic, surprised her with thoughtful gifts, and actually engaged her in real, two-way conversation that _isn’t_ placating lip-service. 

Most people take one look at Lisa’s face, at the care she takes with her make-up and the time she puts into her hair, and they dismiss her as some dumb bimbo. While it’s useful in running cons and misdirecting attention, it always tends to be a pitfall when it comes to Lisa’s _actual_ relationships.

In this, Len will freely admit that Cisco Ramon is one in a million.

Ramon has never spoken to Lisa as if she is something _less_. Granted, sometimes he has to reword himself – because even Len will admit the kid has an IQ that borders on genius – but it isn’t because Ramon doesn’t think Lisa is smart enough to understand. It’s because he knows he’s a science-geek and when he really gets going, only other science-geeks are going to have a shot at picking out one in ten words that pour from his mouth, churning out a mile a minute.

And yeah, maybe Lisa tends to get sticky fingers when she spends the night at Ramon’s apartment, but Len’s also willing to bet that the kid only leaves out inventions he doesn’t mind Lisa walking away with. Hell, Ramon would probably give them to Lisa if she just asked– 

Len smiles crookedly.

–but where’s the fun in that?

So yeah. Somehow those two manage to make it work, which is amazing. Also kind of strange. As much of a white-hat as Ramon is, Len can’t help but wonder about the kid’s motivations, about his loyalties. He knows the kid hasn’t forgotten – or forgiven – the damage Len did to Dante, his older brother. Sure, it wasn’t permanent, but Len knows from personal experience that it isn’t easy, watching someone hurt a sibling and being helpless to do anything about it. And Ramon isn’t just Barry Allen’s tech support, he’s also a close friend.

So how does it all work? How can Cisco Ramon and Lisa Snart be in a relationship – be _happy_ – despite the insurmountable baggage and bad blood between them? Because there is a mountain of it, lies and deceit, kidnapping and torture. 

And still – _still_ – they make it work. Len figures if Ramon and Lisa can beat the odds that threaten to keep them apart, well – who is he to stand in the way? 

Len is okay with Ramon dating his baby sister.

(But he still reserves the right to threaten the kid at the drop of a dime.)

Len gives himself a little shake, focusing his head back in the game. He can’t let his mind drift like that during a job, but they’ve got ninety-seven seconds to go before the CCPD responds to the alarms. This job is at a museum, and the exhibit involves display after display of precious gemstones. 

It took a couple of weeks to case the joint, pinpointing the best time to launch their offensive. The fewest number of guards on duty happens to coincide with the closing time of the bars in the city, a fortuitous coincidence since it means at least a handful of cops will be busy chasing idiot drivers under the influence. Fewer cops on call adds precious seconds to Len’s internal timer.

Lisa uses the EMP-gun that she swiped from Ramon’s apartment; it knocks out all electricity in the museum. That neatly takes care of most security measures, though the generators kick on, which automatically sets off the silent alarm.

In the confusion, Len and Mick make quick work of the two guards on duty. Both guards get the royal treatment – bound with zip-ties at wrist and ankle, silenced with ball-gags. And okay, _maybe_ Len takes it a step too far with that, but in his defense, he orders the gags online, in bulk, for this specific purpose. He’s never felt quite right shoving a piece of cloth into someone’s mouth, or reusing gags between prisoners – ugh, the _germs_. 

On the other hand, Mick always snickers every time they use them, and he tends to give Len this shrewd little smirk. 

“They’re practical,” Len hisses through his teeth, securing his guard’s gag.

“They’re perverted as fuck,” Mick counters, and, well. He’s not wrong. 

“Oh, hello there, beautiful~!” Lisa singsongs from the other room, and Len hears the shattering of glass as his little sister goes to town on the display cases. “Come here, you gorgeous thing! Mama loves you, all of you~”

They have sixty-three seconds. The Flash could show up at any moment. Len’s heart pounds in his chest, adrenaline tingling down his arms into his fingers, coursing down his legs into his toes. It’s such a heady rush, and it sings sweetly in his ears.

He tilts his head toward the sound of shattered glass. Mindful of the guards who are even now making muted, angry sounds at his feet, he says, “Help her out with the score, would you? And keep an eye out for unexpected visitors.”

Mick nods, then tosses him a set of keys, lifted from his security guard. “Time?” the big man asks.

“Sixty seconds,” Len replies. “You’ve got forty seconds to grab what you can, then head out.” He doesn’t mention the rear loading docks, where their getaway vehicle waits. He doesn’t have to; his crew knows this plan inside and out. No mistakes.

“Got it, boss,” Mick says. He glances down at the guards, eyeing the gags, then snorts and shakes his head as he dashes away. “Kinky motherfucker.”

Len doesn’t dignify that with a reply. He sprints to the security room down the hall, unlocks it with his pilfered keys, and quickly sets about wiping all video footage of the theft. The room is relatively low-tech, just basic recorded footage, and all backups are kept within the servers of the room itself. He produces a thumbdrive from his pocket, inserts it into the slot; it takes approximately twenty seconds to upload.

A nasty virus, purchased from a reputable hacker for this specific security setup. As long as it’s uploaded directly into the main computer system, the program will take care of the rest. Upon completion, he pockets the thumbdrive.

Len makes his way back to Lisa and Mick. They’re just finishing up, sweeping as many precious stones as they can get their hands on into their packs. The room looks mostly empty, except– 

There. He reaches over, plucks a single, large sapphire from where it’s nestled in the velvet display. It isn’t the biggest gem left, nor is it the most valuable.

(It is, however, a dead-ringer for the blue of Barry’s eyes.)

He pockets the gem, grabs a bag, and the three of them dash down the halls at full speed. They make it to the loading dock where their getaway van awaits. They have a solid fifteen seconds to spare, likely more as Len can’t even hear the sirens yet. It’s one of their best jobs to date, only the Flash is no where in sight.

Lisa and Mick secure the bags in the back of the van. Len stands there for a moment, fighting a frown.

Behind him, Mick points out, almost kindly, “He’s not coming.”

“I wasn’t–” At this, Len does frown. “Fine, maybe I was. What do you mean, ‘he’s not coming?’”

“Was listening to the news on the way here. Red’s downtown in a fight to the death with the Shocker.”

Len doesn’t whine. He doesn’t. He _asks_. “Again?”

Lisa pulls a piece of gum out of her pocket, pops it into her mouth, chews noisily. “Yup.”

“Fine. I–” Len shakes his head. “That’s fine. We done?”

“Yeah,” Mick says. The big man steps out of the back of the van and lays his hand on Len’s shoulder. He pats it, once, then walks to the front of the van and opens the driver’s side door. “It’s okay, buddy.”

Confused, Len replies, “I– what?”

Lisa sneaks next to him, slipping her arm around his waist and squeezing, a brief hug. She adds, “You’ll see your boy-crush next time we steal something, I promise.” She pulls out her phone, wiggles it enticingly. “I can probably con Cisco out of his number, if you don’t want to wait.”

Len splutters. “He’s not my – we’re enemies! He’s my rival! My – my nemesis!”

Mick nods sagely, “Yeah, buddy. Of course he is.” He jerks his head sharply, indicating they should get in the van. “C’mon. Can hear the sirens now. We have to go.”

They pile in, and Mick pulls away from loading dock just under the speed limit. The cops haven’t seen them, don’t know that they’re the guilty party and that they have approximately two million in precious gemstones squirreled away in the back of their van. There’s no need to rush, and Mick’s foot is like a butterfly on the gas pedal, delicate and precise.

Beside him, Lisa blows a bubble, pops it. “This gonna’ be a thing, you think?”

Len’s tone is a little harsher than necessary as he spits out, “Is what going to be a thing?”

“Being tossed aside like yesterday’s leftovers for this Shocker-chick,” Lisa explains, rolling her eyes.

And there it is again. That feeling. The weight in his chest, that tight little squeeze.

This is the second time it happens, and yeah, it’s kind of worse. Because Len’s been planning this heist for a month, now – been looking forward to trading quips with Barry for a solid four weeks. And this time the kid didn’t even bother to show up.

“Good for us, though,” Lisa continues. “No heat.”

“I like the heat,” Mick tosses over his shoulder, though his eyes never leave the road.

Len hunches over a little, crosses his arms, scowls. 

And he can admit to himself that maybe – _maybe_ – he’s feeling a little – jealous.

But just a little.

(Because where’s the fun in playing this game when he’s the only one making any moves?)

***

The third time it happens is the worst. The absolute fucking _pits_. 

Len isn’t even _on_ a job right now. He’s not even in the planning stage. He tells his crew that with the loot they got from the last two jobs, their fence is already working overtime, trying to line up buyers. He tells his crew that they need to lay low for a little bit, as risking a third high-profile heist in as many months is pushing their luck. He tells his crew to take some well-deserved downtime.

Mick rolls his eyes and Lisa punches him in the shoulder, and they both tell him that if he’s depressed about the Flash not coming out to play, he should man up and call the guy.

Politely, with respect, Len tells his crew to shut the fuck up and mind their own goddamned business, meddlesome motherfucking children, the both of them.

Mick shrugs, says nothing. Lisa snickers and asks what Len wants from the Chinese place around the corner for dinner.

The three of them are currently camped out in their safehouse, sprawled as comfortably as they possible can be on folding, wooden chairs. Half-eaten takeout containers litter the table, and Len delicately lifts a piece of sweet and sour chicken from his box, dipping it into the corresponding red sauce before popping it into his mouth. He munches, barely paying attention to the TV in the background. It’s far more entertaining watching his best friend and his sister almost get into a fistfight over the last fortune cookie.

“Motherfucker,” Lisa snarls. One of Mick’s big, broad hands covers Lisa’s face like one of those face-hugging monsters from Aliens, and he keeps her at arms length as he tries – and fails – to open the cookie’s plastic packaging one-handed. Len’s little sister is swinging blindly, but all she manages to clip in her flailing is the arm that’s holding her at bay.

Mick doesn’t even notice, frowning intently at the cookie wrapper. “Motherfucker,” he mutters plaintively, and the plastic slips through his thick fingers again.

Len snorts, shakes his head. 

(His best friend and his sister. Comedy gold. Seriously, who needs television?)

With this thought in mind, Len reaches out his free hand to snag the remote. He’s about to turn it off when he sees a familiar streak of red on the evening news. He alters his plans without a thought, turning the volume up so that it drowns out the sound of Mick and Lisa’s bickering.

“–here live as the Flash battles his most lethal enemy to date,” the pretty blonde on the screen reports. She stands directly in front of the camera, microphone just below her mouth. “Some of you may be familiar with the woman known only as ‘the Shocker,’ a metahuman who first appeared roughly two months ago, and who has spent those months terrorizing the citizens of Central City without respite–”

“Seriously, Lenny,” Lisa grumbles, fists still flailing as she bats persistently at Mick’s arm.

“Shut up,” Len replies, eyes glued to the scene. The reporter is still talking, but instead of footage of her face, the cameras are now displaying Barry in a fight against a curvy, busty brunette, clad in skin-tight, yellow spandex that hugs her every curve. A black lightning bolt runs up either side of the revealing outfit, and Len might have something negative to say about the motif, but he finds himself stiffening in his chair as the woman hurls a fucking _lightning bolt_ from her bare hands that just barely misses Barry’s face.

“–as you can see, the Shocker can both produce _and_ absorb bolts of electricity, which negates ones of our heroes main advantages in the fight. We’re all familiar with the Flash’s ‘electrified punches,’ of course, but last month’s fight ended poorly when the Shocker absorbed the electricity from said attack and redirected it into a nearby car. The Flash just barely had enough time to rescue the driver and passengers before the entire car became a smoking tomb–”

The fight on the screen becomes more intense, Barry running circles around the Shocker, while the woman tosses out lightning bolt after lightning bolt. One of the bolts clips Barry’s arm, which sends him spinning off course, and the kid slams into a wall hard enough to break bones.

The Shocker laughs, an elegant motion. Her head is tossed back, and she demurely presses the back of her hand to her mouth.

Len sees red, his fingers reaching out to wrap around the grip of his coldgun without conscious thought.

The reporter continues, “The Shocker isn’t a stereotypical criminal and has made no demands for money. It seems her only interests lie in the destruction of Central City, as evidenced by her first attack on Central City’s police department, and in trying to kill our local hero, the Flash–”

The woman lets out another round of electrical bolts. The Flash zips out of the way, clearly favoring his right arm as he moves. What catches Len’s attention, though, is that Barry is – smiling? Grinning fiercely, and it looks like there’s blood between his teeth.

Len can barely make it out, but it looks like Barry is – he’s saying something to her. Remote still in hand, he pounds the volume button with his thumb until it won’t go up any higher.

It’s definitely Barry’s voice. “You’re a live wire, aren’t you, Shocker?”

A woman’s voice. A reply. “Can’t blame a gal for trying to amp up the power, can you, Monday?”

“I don’t – ah, geeze–” Here, Len sees Barry dodge a bolt of lightning, only to get zapped by the ricochet. “You keep – calling me that–” A pause, a grunt of exertion. “We didn’t – meet on a Monday–”

The woman laughs again. This time, Len can hear it, tinkling like church bells on a clear day. “Oh, you remember when we met? You’re so very sweet!” A pause, then, “Your color, lovely boy. Maroon on Monday.”

“Yeouch!” Barry jumps back, gets zapped again. Then, curiously, “Should I call you ‘Sunday,’ then?”

“Sunday?” Lisa asks, frowning. Apparently the footage on the screen is more interesting than wrestling with Mick, and she has finally given up on her quest to collect the last fortune cookie.

On the screen, the Shocker echoes the statement, and Barry grins, gesturing to her bright, yellow attire. “Saffron on Sunday. Fair’s fair, lady.”

“I knew I felt a bit of a spark between us!” the Shocker replies coyly. 

“I think that has more to do with conductivity than anything else,” Barry laments to no one in particular, and then they’re fighting again. It all happens pretty quickly after that. The Shocker puts an innocent bystander in danger, Barry swoops in to save the day, and the woman gets away in the confusion. It’s over and no one wins. _Again_. 

Len turns the TV off abruptly.

Mick opens the plastic packaging using both his hands, and tugs out the fortune cookie. He breaks it in half, pulls out the fortune. After he reads it, he snorts, shakes his head. Half of the cookie goes into his mouth, where he chews it very deliberately. The other half? He sneaks into Lisa’s hand when he thinks Len isn’t looking. 

(To be fair, Len isn’t looking. He’s staring at the TV blankly, torn between anger and – yeah, that’s jealousy. But Mick always splits his fortune cookies with Lisa, it’s just common sense.)

After Lisa has demolished the last crumbs of the cookie, she asks, “What’s with the grump-face, Lenny?”

Len doesn’t reply.

Undaunted, Lisa continues, “Because, seriously? To me, it looks like you’re mad that the Flash is spending his time chasing another bad guy – which gives us _way_ more freedom to do what we do, by the way.”

“It’s not–” Len starts. Stops. Frowns. Then, quietly, “There were puns exchanged.”

Lisa snorts, “Jesus fuckballs, brother mine. You’re pissed off because he’s _punning_ with someone else? God, why am I not surprised.”

Mick shrugs, toys with the small scrap of paper from the fortune cookie between his thumb and forefinger, and points out gruffly, “Doesn’t share well with others. Never has.”

“I – the both of you–” Len frowns again. “Shut up.”

Lisa shrugs smoothly, “Yeah, sure, whatever. Look, all I’m saying is you need to sort your shit out, okay? Clearly you’ve got some issues that need to find a resolution. You’re starting to get that now, so maybe me and Mick won’t have to beat this shit over your head anymore.”

There is a moment where Len digests that statement. He swivels his head to stare at Mick, feeling oddly betrayed.

Mick shrugs as well, more stilted, less elegant, then says, “When she’s right, she’s right. Anyway, I’m gonna’ go out on a beer run. Back in twenty.” Without fanfare, the big man slides the small piece of paper, the fortune, across the table. Then he stands and tilts his head at Lisa, a silent question.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lisa grumbles. “I’ll come with you. I wanted a case of my brand anyway, and you _always_ fuck it up. Probably on purpose.”

“Probably,” Mick agrees mildly.

The pair of them leave the room, side by side, still bickering. Honestly, when Len first introduced Mick to Lisa all those years ago, he’d worried that the two of them might end up together, which would have been disastrous in the long run. Lovers in the same crew, especially a crew as small as theirs, is a recipe for failure. Somehow Len had managed to luck out on both accounts. Mick indulges Lisa’s whims like an older brother, and Lisa rags on him like a little sister. Overall, Len has no complaints.

Curiously, Len picks up the fortune-paper from the table. One side is a string of random numbers, which he ignores. The other side says, “Opportunity will run past you only so many times before it disappears forever.”

With a huff, Len crumples the paper into a tiny ball and flicks it across the table. He thinks of Barry and bad puns, of the Shocker and the flash of jealousy he’s been feeling for months. 

The third time it happens is the worst, if only because Len can’t ignore it now. Can’t pretend it doesn’t matter, because as much as he hates to admit it, it really, really does.

“Shut up,” he says to the empty room, inexplicably exhausted. “Just–” he sighs, leaning back against his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off the headache. “–just, shut up.”

***

To be fair, the fourth time – the fourth time is _not_ his fault.

What it comes down to – unfortunately – is this: Lisa is right.

It doesn’t happen all the time, _especially_ not when Len is involved. After all, he is the go-to criminal for nearly perfect heists. His plans take months to develop, thoroughly covering all of the angles, putting the proper pieces into play. He works things through, does his research, and doesn’t let pride get in the way of getting paid. He’s not bragging when he says he’s one of the best at what he does.

(Okay, he is bragging. But that doesn’t make it any less true.)

What really stings is that Mick Rory is his voice of reason on this one, because Len’s best friend will follow him into the fires of hell with a manic grin and zero-prep time if asked. So for Mick to look him dead in the eye and tell him he’s been emulating Lisa on this, because when she’s right, she’s right?

Yeah. It stings.

(But that doesn’t make it any less true, either.)

Len spends exactly seven days debating with himself, with a brief pit stop on the sixth day to take care of a little bit of irritating business. The question on his mind, see-sawing back and forth, is simple. Should he break into Barry’s house to talk to the kid, or should he sneak into S.T.A.R. Labs?

On one hand, breaking into Barry’s house offers a much more personal setting. On the other hand, the threat level is clearly higher, and Len’s not trying to put the kid on an instant offensive. Breaking into S.T.A.R. Labs is a little riskier, since there are other people besides Barry who roam those halls, but it isn’t as though he doesn’t already have Ramon and Snow’s schedules memorized, and the likelihood of Detective Dad showing up unannounced is pretty low.

On a slightly more positive note, the security in both places is laughable. Honestly, Len could probably make his way into either building with one hand tied behind his back while blindfolded. Actually, maybe he should mention it to Lisa, have her pass that tidbit of friendly advice along to Ramon. Security this poor is begging to be exploited, and Len kind of wants to make sure Barry is – safe.

Shit, no wonder his sister has been ragging on him about the Flash for so long. He’s already clearly stupid for this kid. Fuck.

So, on the seventh day, Len breaks into S.T.A.R. Labs. “Breaks” is too strong of a word, really. More picks the lock on one of the loading dock doors and waltzes right in, but whatever. He has some schematics to the building; he’s had them for months, stolen from city when he realized that the Flash and S.T.A.R. Labs were connected, and he knows from Lisa’s ramblings about Ramon that Team Flash tends to meet in something they call “the cortex.”

From what Len can remember last time he broke into this building, the cortex is probably the same room with all the excessive fancy computers and the dummy that displays the Flash’s red suit.

Len makes another mental note. If the kid hasn’t already moved it, Barry _really_ needs a better place to keep that suit. If this building ever gets raided, the kid can kiss his secret identity goodbye.

With soft, nearly silent footfalls, Len creeps through the long, curved halls. He hears words, echoing, distant. It only takes him a moment to locate the source, and he makes his way closer, pressed against the wall. He is well hidden, and he can’t see the people who are talking, but the words resolve into two separate and distinct voices.

“–bring her by the labs. You’ve been dating this mystery woman for almost six months, dude.” That’s Barry’s voice, faint, full of affection.

“Yeah, and how do you even know it’s the same woman?” Male, young, bordering on petulant. Cisco Ramon.

Len can almost hear Barry roll his eyes. “Because you’ve smelled like the same perfume for six months? Because I’ve been picking the same long, dark hairs off of your shirts for six months? Oh, and because she’s a biter–”

Ramon splutters, and Len bites his lip to keep from doing the same.

Barry continues, “Seriously, dude, no judgements, but she’s got a really distinctive upper premolar on her left side. I should know, I’ve seen the bruising every time you wear a T-shirt after you two have been getting frisky–”

“WOAH!” Cisco says. Shrieks, even. “Woah, dude. You and I are close, but there are some boundaries that–” A pause, then what can only be described as a snicker. “Seriously, though, did you just say ‘frisky?’”

“What’s wrong with frisky?” Barry asks by way of reply. “It’s a good, solid word.”

“Okay, grandpa,” Cisco teases. “Anyway, fine, maybe I will bring her by. It’s just – I don’t know how you and Cait are gonna take it, and – I really like her, dude. I don’t want to scare her away.”

“Hey, hey.” Barry’s voice, so damned earnest. “Look, whatever you’re comfortable with, okay? I know introducing her to – ah – ‘the family’ is kind of a big step. But as long as she makes you happy, I don’t care who she is, what she’s done, okay? Like, she can hurl bolts of lightning at my face in her down time if that’s her thing–”

Cisco scoffs, “I’m not dating the Shocker, Baer. Besides, it seems like she has way more of a ‘spark’ with you.”

“Lightning bolts. At my _face_. Did you miss that part?” Barry sounds indignant. “Or the bit where I had to spend the night in observation because Cait didn’t know how my biology was going to react to healing electrical burns?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ramon replies, off-handed. He sounds like he’s grinning. “I call it how I see it, dude. But anyway, I’m heading out for the night–”

“Got a date with your lady friend?” Barry cuts in.

“My bitey lady friend,” Ramon replies. “You good here?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Barry says. “See you in the morning.”

Len hastily retreats, putting several more feet of distance between the doorway and his person. The halls are well lit, but the curve of the wall makes for decent concealment. After Ramon speaks his final goodbye for the night, the young engineer strides through the open doorway. There is a small bounce in his step as he walks down the hall, excitement and young love. His feet take him away from where Len is skulking.

Inside the cortex, Barry is working on something. There is the soft clatter of fingers on a keyboard. The quiet whisper of a wheeled computer chair rolling across linoleum flooring. Cautiously, Len moves forward, peeks around the corner of the doorway. Barry sits in front of one of many computer monitors, periodically typing data into the machine.

And there it is again. That treacherous, traitorous jump in his chest. The thrill he gets when he’s pulling a heist, only this isn’t a heist. This is a kid ten years Len’s junior, one who operates on the decent side of the law, barely curses, and advocates equality for women, even among criminals. One who looks – well – really, really good right now. 

Len cocks his head to the side, eyeing Barry’s bare arms, accentuated by the soft cotton of a T-shirt. When the kid is wearing the suit, he always looks good. The faux-leather shows off his ass, his arms, his chest. All of that power, packed into six lanky feet of science-nerd. Outside of the suit, Len might not be able to read the harsh edges of every muscle, but there’s something appealing in street clothes. Maybe it’s the deceptive sense of vulnerabilities.

Well, no one will ever accuse Leonard Snart of being a coward. He steps into the room, quiet as a mouse. He takes a single, bracing breath, then says, “Barry.”

There is a streak of lightning, an afterimage, and a faint, burning smell, like ozone. Barry has him pinned up against one of the walls, forearm pressed against Len’s throat, knee pushing between Len’s legs, entire body pressing forward. In that moment, Len is literally trapped between what feels like a rock and a hard place, and okay, it’s actually kind of hot.

Only – Barry’s eyes are a little bit wild. The kid isn’t all there, and Len feels a sliver of rage jolt through him, because how many times has Barry been ambushed like this, that his first instinct is to blindly lash out? The kid's in his mid-twenties, never fought in a war, never been to prison. 

Why the fuck does he have PTSD? Why hasn’t anyone done anything about it?

(Why hasn’t Len ever noticed it before?)

Slowly, mindful of the arm pressed against his throat, the one that can very easily crush his windpipe, Len raises his hands in the universal gesture for surrender.

“I’m unarmed,” Len says, keeping his voice low, soothing. “I just came here to talk, Scarlet.”

“I–” Barry blinks, swallows once convulsively. He takes a quick breath, a skittish step back. He lowers his arm as he asks, “Snart–? What are you–”

Len keeps his hands raised. “I – my sister pointed something out to me. So did Mick. And when your crew tells you to get your shit together, the only thing you can do is get your shit together.”

“Oh.” Barry frowns, clearly confused. Len wonders if the kid followed any of that, but before he can elaborate, Barry hazards, “Is – this about Cisco? Because he’s got enough problems without either of us screwing up his love-life, okay?”

Len can’t quite contain the surprised snort of laughter. “You know about Lisa?”

“That Cisco’s dating her?” Barry smiles wryly, shoulders relaxing slowly, and Len finally lowers his hands. “Um, yeah. Kind of hard to miss. I’ve interrupted enough of your heists to recognize her perfume, and the hair is a dead giveaway. Plus you guys have been using Cisco’s tech during your heists for a while now–”

There is a pause where Len and Barry just look at one another. It feels strange. There is nothing at stake here, no crime to be stopped or solved. In these close quarters, Len is distinctly aware of the things he’s usually fighting to ignore when the Flash interrupts his criminal activities – the color of Barry’s eyes, the tiny curl of his mouth, his slightly defensive body language.

Is Barry noticing these same things about Len himself? Maybe, but it’s difficult to tell. However, there is a part of Len that really hopes the answer is ‘yes.’

Barry continues, “He doesn’t design weapons these days. It’s all mostly just to increase your speed at getting in and out – and I can’t really complain about you having an advantage when it comes to speed, now can I?”

“Suppose not,” Len replies thoughtfully.

Another pause. Longer, more noticeable. Barry fidgets, then asks, “If it’s not about Lisa and Cisco... what are you doing here, Snart?”

“Call me Len.”

“I – Len.” Red dusts Barry’s cheeks. “What are you doing here?”

Len bites his lip. “I was upset. Worried.”

Barry blinks. The red creeps down his neck, darker still. “About me?”

“About you.” Len shifts his weight, one foot to the other, inexplicably nervous.

“Because of, what, all that stuff with the Shocker?” Barry’s eyes flicker down and to the left.

“Yeah, about that...” Len smirks. “The Shocker? She won’t be a problem anymore.”

“Wha–” Barry’s eyes narrow, then widen. “You – you went after her. By yourself? She’s dangerous, Snart–”

Mildly, he interjects, “Len.”

“She’s _dangerous_ , Len,” Barry repeats. Then, Barry is next to him, frantic. His hands are patting everywhere all at once, super speeds, looking for injury. “Did she – if she hurt you I’ll–” Then, as abruptly as it began, it ends, and Barry’s stepping back, retreating. His face is still flushed, though if it’s from anger or the fact that he’s been feeling up Len’s entire body with his bare hands, Len couldn’t say.

And just like that, Len has to smile.

He doesn’t know how Lisa and Ramon do it. He doesn’t know how they balance it out, the happiness and the heartache. He doesn’t know if he and Barry are even compatible – apart from the bad puns and the physical attraction that sometimes blindsides him like the worst sort of sucker punch. 

But he does know this: it’s worth it to try.

“Maroon on Monday,” Len says.

Barry blinks, tilts his head, inquisitive. “What?”

“The Shocker,” Len clarifies. “When you were fighting, the news was filming you. I was – I watched the news, and she said she called you ‘Monday’ because of your color. Maroon on Monday.”

“Ah.” Barry snorts. “I prefer ‘Scarlet,’ to be honest, but I wasn’t about to tell her that.”

There is a little thrill that shoots down Len’s spine at Barry’s softly spoken admission, coupled with a touch of possession because no one else is allowed to use that name. It isn’t something that’s worth dwelling on, but it’s worth acknowledging. 

“Maroon on Monday is the gimmick of a local bar,” Len continues. “Red drinks are half-off on Monday. They’ve also got Tan on Tuesday and White on Wednesday. The Shocker – Missy Halpern – she’s a regular there.”

Barry blinks.

“I’m a criminal, a klepto, a thief.” Len smirks. “Point is... I won’t win in a fair fight against a metahuman. So if I already know that going in, well then, why should I fight fair?”

“Wait a sec–” Barry brow is furrowed. “What did you – you drugged her?”

Len shrugs, the picture of innocence. “I knew she frequented a bar enough to be familiar with their Monday special. You don’t go to a bar unless you’re planning on having at least one drink. Buy a pretty girl a drink – a pretty, deadly, overconfident girl who can shoot lightning bolts with her bare hands.” Len’s smirk turns savage, all teeth. “You’re damn right I drugged her.”

Barry doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, without warning, his shoulders shake and he begins to laugh. “You _drugged_ her. I can’t believe – where is she?”

Len smothers his grin, ducking his head to hide the expression. “Trunk of my car, parked outback. She’s not waking up anytime soon. I figured you could stick her in your fancy little prison in the basement, at least until you can figure out a way to nullify her abilities.”

Barry nods in agreement, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. He’s still smiling, almost rueful. “Yeah. If we put her into Iron Heights right now, it’d do more harm than good. Their metahuman-wing isn’t equipped to deal with her, not yet.”

A pause, then they both start to speak simultaneously.

“I’m going to–”

“I should probably–”

Together, they stop. Look at each other. Smile, a little awkwardly, and trail off in nervous laughter.

Len volunteers, “I’ll – bring her in for you. I’d be _shocked_ if she wakes up until sometime tomorrow, though.”

Barry stiffens, spine going ramrod straight. 

Startled, Len asks, “What’s wrong?”

Barry bites his lip, shrugs a little, flushed red. “I don’t – I guess I get a little jealous? When you pun for someone else.”

So, yeah, the fourth time? The fourth time isn’t Len’s fault, not really. He’s not the one who is jealous, and how was he to know that Barry would react the same to puns spoken on the side?

(Honestly, it’s kind of refreshing to know he’s not alone in this – whatever _this_ ends up being.)

Back on topic, though. This time jealousy rears its ugly head for those scant few seconds, it honestly _isn’t_ Len’s fault. But if he plays his cards right, he can learn the rules of this new, intriguing game, the clues of which are hidden in Barry’s bright smile, and in the gentle crinkle that teases the corners of his eyes. The fourth time might not be Len’s fault, but if Len has anything to say about it, well, every time after will be.

***

_fin_


End file.
